


something mystical, in colored lights

by bropunzeling



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 17:07:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4843460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bropunzeling/pseuds/bropunzeling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So,” the first reporter asks, pushing forward in the scrum, “did you know about Alex Ovechkin?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	something mystical, in colored lights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elareine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elareine/gifts).



> dear elareine: i hope you like it, even if it wasn't really any of your prompts. (also, if you're so inclined, i will totally do a porny coda on request.)
> 
> shout out to amy and julia, who betaed 90% of this today before i went to work. what champs. title from sugar by robin schulz.

The last normal game of Nicky’s life starts like this:

“What you think,” Alex says, nudging Nicky in the tunnel. “Score more than me today?”

Nicky thinks about it. “It is Pavelec,” he says finally, which, while cruel, is true.

“So I score more than you,” Alex says triumphantly. “Will get with one-timer. Wait and see.”

“You wait and see,” Nicky chirps easily, taking the soft sock to the shoulder with grace. Alex always punches him lighter than he does anyone else, which Nicky knows after eight years is a mark of respect.

“Winnipeg not know what hit them,” Alex agrees with a laugh.

-

Two and a half hours later, nobody’s laughing.

“So,” the first reporter asks, pushing forward in the scrum, “did you know about Alex Ovechkin?”

It’s been a long game. They snuck away with a win in overtime, but Nicky can feel the weight of all those shifts in his bones, is still trying to catch his breath. He doesn’t really want to talk to any of these people.

“Did you know?” the reporter repeats.

Nicky pauses, waits. He wonders if he can avoid the question all together, but Julia from PR might tell him off. He finally settles for, “What about him?”

“That he’s got magic,” the reporter says, voice snapping out in the quiet of the locker room.

Nicky blinks through the fog of tiredness and says, “Oh, that.”

-

In hindsight, it probably wasn't the best response.

-

It’s not that magic is uncommon, or illegal, or anything like that. Though America is far less civilized than Sweden – probably the Puritan influence, according to the history book Alex occasionally reads in public when he isn’t trying to hide how smart he is – they don’t outright ban sorcery. Aside from a box on people’s driver’s licenses, magicians, such as they are, are a protected category under the law.

“ _Erikson v. the State of Wyoming_ ,” Alex tells Nicky on the plane to Winnipeg the day before everything goes to shit, pointing to a spot in his book – _Cast Off: the Fall and Rise of Magic in America_. “Leif Erikson kicked out of the police department, sue whole state. After that – protected category.”

“Like _Brown v. Board_ ,” Nicky says, tipping his head back.

Alex grins at him, eyes crinkled. “Exactly like,” he says. It’s not like Nicky ever meant to be a history buff, but sit next to Alex Ovechkin long enough and you get an education whether you want it or not. Nicky’s had enough plane rides to learn about the American Civil Rights movement, the Olympics cheating scandals, and the history of Russian hedgewitches during the last season alone.

“One guy change everything for us. Incredible, yes?” Alex says.

“Incredible,” Nicky repeats.

It doesn’t mean much, when you’re a hockey player – magical ability is still practically a secret, the only nod a listing of the total number of players with magical ability in the league. No names, no faces. Protection through anonymity.

But Nicky watches Alex smile and thinks that it’s nice, that Alex has this: _Erikson v. Wyoming_ , a ruling in black and white. “The court so stands” doesn’t fix everything, but it does something, and sometimes that’s good enough.

-

“That was stupid,” Nicky says once the reporters have left, once he can get Alex on his own. Not that it’s hard – Alex has taken his sweet time in the de-warding room, carefully peeling off special charms and smearing the lines on his pads with a Q-tip, more methodical than usual. When Nicky looks at a shoulder pad closely, it looks like someone ran it over with a pick-up truck.

Alex just sighs and doesn’t look up, which – normally, Alex isn’t like this. Normally Alex is in Nicky’s face, or in the room itself, not hiding out and refusing to look Nicky in the eye. It’s enough to unsettle Nicky, more than the glass on the ice or the ringing in his ears after some Jet’s shoulder drove him into the boards.

“Why did you do that?” Nicky asks, leaning over Alex. He himself is down to just Under Armor. He hasn’t showered yet – too busy answering questions in as dull a tone as he could manage, which is fairly dull. It didn’t stop people from asking the questions again in a louder voice.

Alex keeps staring at the ground, for a moment. Then he glances up, and Nicky – isn’t quite sure what he sees. Frustration, maybe, and shame, but also a flash of the same wordless rage that led to all the lights in the MTS Centre blowing out at once.

“He didn’t hit me that hard,” Nicky finally says, unsure what else to say.

“Hard enough,” Alex sighs, and then he closes his eyes and tips his head back against the locker. It’s a clear enough dismissal, and Nicky walks back to the locker room. He has to shower, anyways.

-

The next day is even more of a goddamn circus than the first. Apparently Alex Ovechkin, Secret Magician, is trending on Twitter.

“This is sick,” Wilso says, eyes wide and acting far too awake on their flight out of Winnipeg. “We’re _trending_.”

“Ovi is trending,” Latts corrects, punching Wilso so he’ll put his phone away. “Now shut the fuck up, some of us are trying to sleep.”

“Fuck off,” Wilso grumbles, but he stops talking about it anyways, turning his phone off as the plane taxis.

Nicky goes to take his regular seat, but Alex turns his head away, and there’s still a crackle of electricity, enough to make Nicky wary and more than a little hurt, though it’s stupid to think so. Instead he takes a seat next to TJ, who smiles at him before scrolling through pictures Lauren sent him of Lyla.

When he first came to the Caps, TJ had awkwardly confessed his own magic. “It’s not like I can do a lot,” he’d said, shrugging. “Just like, light shit up. It makes Lyla happy, at least.”

Alex had hugged him then, crowing something about a secret club, distracting enough that everyone focused on him instead of TJ’s nervousness. He’s always been good at deflecting attention, even from before Nicky ever met him, and it makes Nicky wonder where he learned it.

“Doing okay?” Nicky asks now, quiet so the hum of the engine makes eavesdropping harder.

TJ shrugs, speaks quietly back. “Fine. I – it feels weird to worry, you know? It’s not like I’m even that magical to begin with.”

“But you worry,” Nicky continues.

TJ laughs softly. “Nobody wants to be first, you know.”

Nicky knows. Sometimes, late at night, Alex would say something similar in the back hallways of bars or from the safety of Nicky’s couch, head tipped back and eyes shut. “I’m afraid,” he’d say, and Nicky would hear the tremor in his voice, and feel afraid too. “What if first? No one know what to do with Ovechkin, Hockey Star. If know that I magician – well.”

He hadn’t known what to say then. He’s still not sure what to say now. “It’ll be okay” just seems trite, and “Alex can handle it” feels like abandonment.

Finally he settles for, “We’ll figure it out. As a team.”

TJ just hums, leans back in his seat. He mumbles, “I hope so,” and Nicky nods his agreement.

-

After Winnipeg, Nicky and Alex don’t talk.

Nicky trains and plays and trains. He goes to the trainers about his hip. He Skypes his parents and his brother. He watches the rookies at bars and invites TJ and Justin over for dinner and he ignores the reporters when they ask for a statement about Alex. He trains and plays and trains some more.

Somehow, he keeps missing Alex. Half of it, he’s sure, is Alex avoiding him, but the other half is that he isn’t looking all that hard.

“Hey, Pops,” Latts says as they come off the ice, red in the face and breathing hard. “Do you know what’s happening with the captain?”

Nicky shrugs. It’s rude, but. These aren’t his questions to answer right now. “Ask the captain,” he says finally.

Latts frowns. “But I’m asking you,” he says, almost pouting. “You always know.”

“Well I don’t right now,” Nicky says evenly. “You have weights to do?”

Huffing, Latts glares at him. “You do too,” he says, and then, “you’ll tell me eventually.”

Nicky hums back. It makes him feel like a jackass, but he doesn’t really – it’s not something he wants to talk about right now. He and Alex can sort out their shit in their own sweet time, without the babies trying to get involved.

He’s barely passed Latts in the hallway when Brooksie is matching pace with him. “He has a point,” Brooksie says, voice light and even. “The locker room is feeling a little strange.”

“We’ll fix it,” Nicky says, taking a short breath in through his nose.

“Good,” Brooksie says. He speeds up, snaps Wilso with a towel and shouts something as he enters the weight room. Nicky follows behind him.

It isn’t necessarily surprising when after practice Nicky finds unopened texts from Greenie and Wardo on his phone, because everybody on this team is a horrible gossip, even when they’re technically on other teams. Wardo’s is just about how badly they’re going lose in San Jose, nothing outright asking anything, which Nicky appreciates.

Greenie’s is, _You and Ovi doing okay?_ There isn’t even a mocking reference to marrieds or anything, not that Greenie would. Still, Nicky would almost prefer the joke.

 _Fine_ , he stabs back, and then he gets in his car and drives home and ignores everyone as long as possible. It isn’t mature in the slightest, but it makes him feel better all the same.

-

The thing is, Nicky isn’t sure how to fix it. He isn’t sure how to say, “I’m sorry your secret’s out” or “I’m sorry it got out because you were mad I got hit” or “Hockey is a fucking contact sport so you shouldn’t have been mad anyways” in a single conversation. He doesn’t know how to tell Alex everything will be all right, when he’s facing down reporters after every game who ask questions about magic that are probably considered under the heading of irresponsible journalism, or at least being an asshole. He doesn’t know how to reassure Alex that they won’t flare out of the playoffs, that they’ll have the scoring they need, that the league will support him, that he won’t get hit in the back and smash his shoulder into the boards, that his hips won’t give out. Maybe if it was just one of these worries, he could, but all of them is more than he has words for.

There are so many things Nicky can’t say, not in Swedish, not in English, not in what he and Alex have cobbled together through plane rides and team meetings and diagrams. He’s not sure any language would be good enough.

Instead he waits, the frustration ebbing out of him slowly, leaving him ready for – well, whatever Alex brings, he guesses.

When they go to practice the next day, he catches Alex’s eye more than he looks away.

-

They win at home, which is always a cause for drinking, and that’s how Nicky ends up in the back corner of a bar, nursing his beer and wondering if Andre is actually standing up under his own power still. He’s the only one left in the booth, the marrieds gone home to roost and the kids drinking like they’ll always have functional livers, and he can’t help but wonder what it is he’s staying for.

The answer comes in the form of Alex weaving his way through the crowd, holding out another beer and meeting Nicky’s eyes.

“I’m give an interview,” Alex says without preamble, dropping down into the seat next to Nicky. The bar is loud enough that Nicky almost can’t hear what he says.

“What?” Nicky asks.

“An interview,” Alex repeats, dropping his head close to Nicky’s, breath hot on Nicky’s cheek. “With NHL Network.”

Nicky takes a pull of his beer. “You’re talking to me,” he says, stupidly. He doesn’t know why he said this. Maybe it’s the alcohol, or the fact that he got three points and Alex got two, or that today only had one postgame question about Alex’s magic. Maybe it’s the strangeness of being so close to Alex after being far away, feeling the electric current brush against his arm.

Alex, for his part, looks slightly ashamed. His eyes lower, and he stares at his own drink, turning it with his hands. Nicky watches his fingers.

“Sorry,” Alex says. “I – it scare me, what I do.”

“You always know what you can do,” Nicky says before he can think better of it. Alex has told him stories of thunderstorms, of kitchen fires, of bringing back winter when he wanted to go skating. Alex is always careful when it comes to important things, like magic and children and passing the puck, but he still has that livewire under his skin. Every moment of contact – a tap to the shoulder, a hand around Nicky’s wrist, an arm around his back – is a reminder that if he doesn’t remember, he could burn Nicky up without even thinking.

Alex just hums, not agreement, not anything else, either.

“Normally you have more control,” Nicky adds, because apparently tonight he’s had too much to drink, or maybe he’s fed up with both trying to stare Alex into talking and looking away. “Normally you don’t blow out the lights in an arena.”

“Normally you not out on ice for minutes. Normally, I not have to worry about you,” Alex says back, voice oddly sharp. Then he sinks back, eyes apologetic. “Sorry.”

“You’re not,” Nicky says, because it’s not like he is either.

“I’m not,” Alex agrees.

Nicky sighs. “It wasn’t a bad hit, Alex.”

“How you know? You not see you on ice.” Alex sighs, and draws a pattern in the condensation of the glass. “Not matter, though. Now the world know who I am.”

“Not really,” Nicky says. “Just what you do.”

At that, Alex smiles at him, and it does something to Nicky’s stomach. It’s probably because it’s been so long since Nicky’s seen Alex look like that, but something about the gap tooth and the way Alex’s eyes crinkle makes his chest feel warmer than normal. It’s practically impossible not to smile back, to let his fingers brush Alex’s arm, careful.

Nicky – he isn’t sure, because the bar light is shit and he’s had more drinks than he meant, but it’s almost like Alex is glowing, just a little, the same as when he just comes off the ice or after a good win. He looks golden, and Nicky promptly resolves never to tell Alex that in case it goes to his head.

Alex leans forward, his forehead resting on Nicky’s shoulder. He mumbles something into Nicky’s collarbone, but Nicky can’t understand him. He thinks about asking Alex to repeat himself, but instead opts to take another gulp of beer, and appreciate the weight of Alex on his shoulder, warm and comfortingly there.

-

The article drops a week and a half later. The entire team spends the plane ride to Philadelphia reading it, shouting lines over the sound of the engine.

“Your mom was a Baba Yaga?” Latts asks, half incredulous.

“Is government job,” Alex shouts back, shaking his head. “So ignorant. What, think I grow up in house on chicken leg?”

Five minutes later, Holts says, “Wait. You set a pond on fire?”

“When I five,” Alex protests. He whispers in Nicky’s ear, “Wasn’t even big pond. Very small.”

“You sure you aren’t lying to us, Ovi? Maybe you were just trying to impress the reporter,” Nisky says with a laugh.

“Only way he can get a date,” Brooks says slyly.

“Fuck all of you,” Alex bellows. “Just you wait and you all catch on fire.”

“You want to set me on fire? See if I ever pass to you again,” Nicky says, trying to sound as coolly outraged as possible.

For a second, Alex looks genuinely remorseful. “Of course not. Sorry, Nicky.”

Nicky keeps his eyebrows raised, before finally he breaks. “Just kidding. You can set everyone else on fire, though. That’s okay.”

Brooks and Nisky laugh, even as Wilso yells, “Not cool, Pops!”

“Just as long as you pass,” Alex mutters, but he’s grinning at Nicky anyways, momentary fear forgotten. “Make no promises.”

“Better promise me,” Nicky chirps back, before settling into his seat and closing his eyes for a nap. He doesn’t need to read some NHL bullshit article for material – he can give Alex shit just fine on his own.

-

Nicky gets asked about the article after practice in Philly. “How long did you know?” someone asks, the same question that’s been asked ever since Winnipeg.

The first time Nicky saw Alex do magic, _really_ do it, he was a rookie and they were outside in D.C. in winter, cold and windy and dark on their way to Alex’s apartment for post-drinking drinks. Nicky was feeling particularly miserable, missing Gälve, wishing he was inside and drinking glögg and that they weren’t losing so much, and Alex had tugged him aside and said “Nicky.”

Nicky looked, and saw a small fire in Alex’s palms, cherry red and warm like an oven. His hands glowed red as he held them out to Nicky, like a gift.

“Look cold,” Alex had said, smiling at Nicky, and Nicky had held his palms out over Alex’s, taking in that warmth.

Here, now, Nicky looks out at the reporters and adopts his best bland expression. “You’ve seen his hockey. He’s always been magic.”

At that, the room chuckles. Alex looks over at the sound, and Nicky shoots him a quick half-smile. It earns him a grin back.

-

Three days after the interview drops, Alex skates out at Consol and, to put it mildly, looks like shit. His skating is slow, his passes are slower, and when there’s a stoppage in play, he leans against the glass and braces himself on his thighs. Malkin skates up next to him, and Nicky leans on his stick as he watches them argue behind the net.

Next shift, Alex goes back down the tunnel. Nicky tries to just keep skating, but he’s distracted all the same. Not having Alex on his wing feels wrong, like he’s lost a skate blade and is listing off-balance. As soon as the period ends, Nicky goes past the locker room and straight towards the trainer’s room.

“You look horrible,” Nicky says when he walks in, helmet in hand.

“Bad ward,” Alex replies, wincing. Nicky absently watches the runes flicker over his skin, washing everything in gold. “Break. Try to keep magic in, tire me out.”

“Maybe someone got paid off,” Nicky says. It wouldn’t be the first time. Everyone heard about the misdrawn wards on Sidney Crosby’s equipment before the concussion some low-level official got paid off to clear. It’s hard to imagine it happening again in Consol, but there’s always the possibility. “What’d Malkin say to you?”

“Say I look like shit,” Alex laughs.

Nicky nods and hums. “Not wrong.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Alex says, and then wheezes. “Shit, Emily? Think something is –“

One of the warders heads over, her clean white linen scrubs bright in the room. “Sorry, Nicklas, but you’re going to have to leave,” she says matter-of-factly, almost shoving him through the door. Nicky has just enough time to see her magic pour out of her hands, blue and cool and almost drowning out the gold glow of Alex’s ribs, and then the door is shut.

-

Alex is gone through the second, gone through the third. Latts scores a beauty of a goal, and Holts shuts the door even through the last three minutes when Crosby is skating like a man possessed, and they barely eke out the win.

“Feels good,” Nicky says when a reporter asks. “Nice to win.”

“How’s Alex?” someone yells.

Nicky shrugs it off. “He’ll be back soon,” he offers, and then the questions come back, and Alex is miraculously forgotten, just for a little while longer.

-

“So what’s wrong with you?” Wilso calls as Alex troops into the hotel lobby the next day.

“Wrong? With me?” Alex asks, raising his eyebrows. “Nothing. I perfect.”

“But –“ Wilso starts, only to immediately get shushed.

“Is nothing, children,” Alex declares, and then, “We get on bus or not?”

Once everyone is firmly ensconced in their seats, and Wilso and Latts are busy distracting themselves by talking loudly about _The Bachelor_ , Nicky carefully taps Alex on the shoulder between the seat backs.

“You okay?” he asks. He doesn’t expect much more than a yes or no answer, but he would at least like to know if Alex is going to collapse on the plane in an hour.

“Tell you when we home,” Alex says quietly.

Nicky nods and leans back in his seat, shaking out one of the Swedish magazines his mother has sent him and ignoring Brooksie’s nudge to the shoulder. Alex may be an idiot, but he’s not stupid. He wouldn’t put everyone needlessly in danger, and he’ll tell Nicky what he needs to know just when he means to, no sooner, no later.

-

Alex follows Nicky home.

“I don’t have any food,” NIcky says right off the bat, dropping his keys in the bowl and leaving his shoes by the door as Alex follows suit.

“We order later,” Alex says casually, though the way he’s fiddling with practically every knick-knack in Nicky’s hallway makes it clear how very not casual he’s feeling.

“Not Chinese,” Nicky says quickly, because the last time Alex ordered Chinese was an unmitigated disaster that led to some of the rookies puking in Nicky’s bathroom. 

“Not Chinese,” Alex agrees, even as he practically herds Nicky down the hall. 

“Okay,” Nicky says, even as Alex pushes him into the living room like some kind of sheepdog. “What are you doing?”

“Want to tell you something,” Alex says, looking shifty. 

“Is this about your magic?” Nicky asks.

“Ye-es,” Alex says, even more shiftly.

“So what… is it?” Nicky finally asks, eying him. “Are you sick or something?”

“No, no, no,” Alex says quickly. “Just -- nothing really wrong.”

“Okay,” Nicky says slowly, “but will you tell me?”

“So worried,” Alex laughs, smiling at Nicky, and --

“You’re glowing,” Nicky says, fascination creeping into his voice.

Alex, for once in his life, looks taken aback as he says, “No, I not –“

“Your hands,” Nicky interrupts, reaching out and taking one. He can see magic like blood vessels, ropes of gold right under the skin. Alex is shining and harsh and warm, simultaneously hard to look at and comforting, like a bonfire, like the sun got trapped in his skin.

Alex flushes. “Sorry,” he says, looking at Nicky. “Normally not like this.”

“No, I – oh,” Nicky says, watching the magic flow through Alex’s arms and under the sleeves of his t-shirt. Magic doesn’t move like this in Sweden – magic is a thing you find in water and earth and air, not something that comes through your body, like your blood or your breath. Nicky thinks, not for the first time, that he’s never met someone like Alex before.

“Why?” he asks.

Alex laughs, reckless and bright, and he doesn’t take back his hand. “Russian magic – emotional, yes?”

“Yes,” Nicky agrees. That’s one of the first things he learned, being friends with Alex, forced to read pages from books on chi pathways and Maasai bead spells and wizarding legislation. Russian magic, more than any other kind practiced in the world, is rooted in one’s soul.

“Well,” Alex says. “I – have change. In feelings for person, and it – it harder to control my magic, around them.”

Abruptly, Nicky doesn’t want to hear more, because if Alex – if he has feelings for someone – Nicky doesn’t need to hear this. “Oh,” he says sharply, and tries to take his hand back.

Alex just holds on tighter. “Nicky,” he says. “Nicky, the person – is you.”

Nicky stares. If this is a joke – but Alex wouldn’t joke, not about this, and when Nicky meets his eyes, he finds Alex staring back, utterly serious.

“Me,” he repeats, stupidly. “You -- feel things? For me?” After a second, he adds, “Really?”

“Yes,” Alex says, like it’s simple.

“Oh,” Nicky says, and -- it is simple. This is him and Alex, and there’s nothing complicated about how they work together. “Oh,” he says, and he smiles at Alex, because this is the easiest thing in the world.

Alex’s smile lights up his whole face as he reels Nicky closer. “Good oh?” he asks.

Nicky rolls his eyes, and kisses him.

Kissing Alex is something that Nicky feels like he already knows how to do. He knows that Alex will kiss him hard, that his stubble will be rough against Nicky’s skin, but he didn’t know how warm Alex’s hands would be on his back, or how Alex would tug him in closer like he needed more points of contact. Alex kisses him like he wants to win, but that winning would mean making Nicky laugh.

Alex licks Nicky’s cheek, and Nicky laughs into his ear, turning his forehead into Alex’s hair. “Mature,” he says, even as he giggles.

“Yes, most mature,” Alex says, gamely shoving Nicky back towards his living room couch. “Now more kisses, chop chop.”

“You stopped the kissing,” Nicky mumbles, even as he sits down hard and pulls Alex after him.

“Now I start,” Alex says, grinning as he crawls over Nicky, dropping down to his forearms. All of his weight presses Nicky down into the couch, fingers tangling in Nicky’s hair.

“Stop smirking and go back to kissing me,” Nicky orders him.

With a smile, Alex obliges him, and washes Nicky’s skin in gold.

-

“So,” Alex asks, in the tunnel and waiting to outskate the Canes. “Think you score more than me?”

“Of course,” Nicky says. “You’ll only beat me by cheating.”

“Can’t help if I dazzle goalies,” Alex says loftily, before smiling quickly at Nicky. “Dazzle you, too.”

“Only a little,” Nicky says, and nudges Alex with his shoulder.

Alex grins back.


End file.
